The Labors of Hercules - Agatha Christie [25]
“What nationality was she, English?”
“No, sir, she’d be French, I think. She’d a funny sort of accent. But she spoke English all right. She—she was friendly and after a bit I asked her if she could come out that night and go to the pictures, but she said her lady would be needing her. But then she said as how she could get off early in the afternoon because as how they wasn’t going to be back off the river till late. So the long and the short of it was that I took the afternoon off without asking (and nearly got the sack for it too) and we went for a walk along by the river.”
He paused. A little smile hovered on his lips. His eyes were dreamy. Poirot said gently:
“And she was pretty, yes?”
“She was just the loveliest thing you ever saw. Her hair was like gold—it went up each side like wings—and she had a gay kind of way of tripping along. I—I—well, I fell for her right away, sir. I’m not pretending anything else.”
Poirot nodded. The young man went on:
“She said as how her lady would be coming down again in a fortnight and we fixed up to meet again then.” He paused. “But she never came. I waited for her at the spot she’d said, but not a sign of her, and at last I made bold to go up to the house and ask for her. The Russian lady was staying there all right and her maid too, they said. Sent for her, they did, but when she came, why, it wasn’t Nita at all! Just a dark catty-looking girl—a bold lot if there ever was one. Marie, they called her. “You want to see me?” she says, simpering all over. She must have seen I was took aback. I said was she the Russian lady’s maid and something about her not being the one I’d seen before, and then she laughed and said that the last maid had been sent away sudden. “Sent away?” I said. “What for?” She sort of shrugged her shoulders and stretched out her hands. “How should I know?” she said. “I was not
there.”
“Well, sir, it took me aback. At the moment I couldn’t think of anything to say. But afterwards I plucked up the courage and I got to see this Marie again and asked her to get me Nita’s address. I didn’t let on to her that I didn’t even know Nita’s last name. I promised her a present if she did what I asked—she was the kind as wouldn’t do anything for you for nothing. Well, she got it all right for me—an address in North London, it was, and I wrote to Nita there—but the letter came back after a bit—sent back through the post office with no longer at this address scrawled on it.”
Ted Williamson stopped. His eyes, those deep blue steady eyes, looked across at Poirot. He said:
“You see how it is, sir? It’s not a case for the police. But I want to find her. And I don’t know how to set about it. If—if you could find her for me.” His colour deepened. “I’ve—I’ve a bit put by. I could manage five pounds—or even ten.”
Poirot said gently:
“We need not discuss the financial side for the moment. First reflect on this point—this girl, this Nita—she knew your name and where you worked?”
“Oh yes, sir.”
“She could have communicated with you if she had wanted to?”
Ted said more slowly:
“Yes, sir.”
“Then do you not think—perhaps—”
Ted Williamson interrupted him.
“What you’re meaning, sir, is that I fell for her but she didn’t fall for me? Maybe that’s true in a way . . . But she liked me—she did like me—it wasn’t just a bit of fun to her . . . And I’ve been thinking, sir, as there might be a reason for all this. You see, sir, it was a funny crowd she was mixed up in. She might be in a bit of trouble, if you know what I mean.”
“You mean she might have been going to have a child? Your child?”
“Not mine, sir.” Ted flushed. “There wasn’t nothing wrong between us.”
Poirot looked at him